


Chiaroscuro

by toastedbagels



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dark!Clarke, Dom/sub, F/M, Grounder AU, Grounder Bellamy Blake, Grounder Culture, Grounder Octavia Blake, M/M, Power Play, Slow Burn, all that good stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastedbagels/pseuds/toastedbagels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is spared the immediate death of floating at eighteen. Her penance for treason is sacrifice: sent on her own, down to Earth, to find out if nature is survivable. But it's more than survivable. It's alive & it's beautiful & so very dangerous.</p><p>HIATUS FOR SERIES REWATCH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ark Station v. Clarke Griffin, 102. ARK. 112. ( 2149 )

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends ! This is my newest plot child in honor of the new season, which, is a pretty decent AU of the canon storyline. On her 18th birthday, the Council decides instead of sending the entire Box, to make Clarke's punishment of treason: to be sent to Earth on her own. She has two weeks to ensure the Ground is capable for mass survival before the Ark justifies the Culling, but along the way of doing just that, gets mixed up in saving a wounded Second in Command Okteivia who attempted to retrieve what fell from the sky. Many more plot twists & some of your favorite characters have been AU-ified! ( a.k.a. Bellamy, wink wonk. )
> 
> Please note: this story will have dark themes. If you can't handle that, it's not meant for you! ♥

** 0501 TRANSCRIPT A01. **  

 

**JAHA:** Alright, thank you all for coming here so early today. But this is a very .  .  . _unique_ case. For formalities sake, I must address to the council stenographer the basics before we begin. Are you ready?

**MARKSMAN** : Of course, Chancellor.

**JAHA** : Then, this is the case hearing of Ark Station v. Clarke Griffin, 102. ARK. 112. ( 2149 ), for her crimes against the Twelve Stations. Obviously, the elephant in the room is that Abigail Griffin, mother of the accused and fellow councilwoman, is here with us, but she's been instructed remain unbiased in her decision making, or receive equal, _and or_ , worse punishment of unethical acts of treason. Is that understood?

**GRIFFIN** : Yes. I will try to be _completely_ calm as we discuss the  _death sentence_ on my daughter's head. I've already lost my husband, Jaha. Don't make me watch my child die too.

**JAHA:** Abby, we very well can come to an agreement that will spare your daughter's —

**KANE** : — _what_ , and have an uprising of the parents of other eighteen-year-old's we've forced capital punishment on? Who have, in the past, done much less damage than the girl? She's in solitary, for Heaven's sake. Think clearly, Thelonious.

**GRIFFIN** : That  _girl_ was blindly following her father's mistake. Not only did she  _not_ reveal any information between when she found out and when she was detained, but has had time to reflect on her actions.

**FUJI** : And you know this, _how_ , exactly? The Box is an unauthorized zone for all beyond the guards. How many get-out-of-jail free cards are we going to give the Griffin family before we just make them untouchable?

**GRIFFIN** : I think the death of Jake and the arrest of my innocent daughter makes us  _more_ than —

**JAHA** : Enough. All of you. Abby, I won't say this again: you need to get a hold of yourself and remain quiet, or I will be forced to ask you to leave. We _will_ come to a conclusion without your input. Do you understand me?

**GRIFFIN** : Yes.

**JAHA** : Okay. Then we continue. The fact of the matter is that Clarke has been in Sky Box, living out her sentencing until today, her eighteenth birthday. She obviously hasn't spread the information of the Ark's failing oxygen supply, but witnesses have provided evidence that her final promise to her Father was to expose the problem.

**GRIFFIN** : I can convince her, Thelonious. She won't betray the Ark. Not when her life is on the line.

**FUJI** : I'm not so sure. She's a child, and a child does foolish things, especially when consumed by grief. Just because she hasn't spoken about it, doesn't mean she doesn't plan to. The Box is very limited to outside contact, worse, within solitary confinement. Its safe to say her sources of uncovering have been slim to none. What  _real_ evidence can you provide that she won't open her mouth the second we release her from our custody?

**GRIFFIN** : I have nothing but a mother's intuition. I know my daughter, Fuji, and I know if I could _just_ bring some sense to her, she can and will behave for us.

**KAPLAN** : My wife and I used to babysit Clarke all the time. She's a good girl, but she's also stubborn. As unfortunate as this is, we're going to need more than that.

**COLE** : So, what _exactly_ is it we're all proposing to do with her? Keep the girl in Lockup until .  .  . she _matures_? Until we all run out of oxygen, and it doesn't matter? Or do we release her on the hope she doesn't start a riot? Because if she does —

**GRIFFIN** : — my daughter is  _not_ getting floated —

**JAHA** : — Abby, what did I tell you?

**GRIFFIN** : — what if we don't float her, hear me out, _please_ — but we don't release her from her sentence either?

**JAHA:** What are you asking of us, Abby? Understand the gravity of the situation. 

**GRIFFIN** : The Ground. We can send Clarke to the Ground.

**MUIR** : I thought you were trying to  _save_  your daughter's life, Griffin, not end it. Then we're just letting Marcus win.

**KANE** : I take a lot of offense to that, I don't want —

**MUIR** : — how unfortunate —

**JAHA** : Order, friends, _please_. Let's continue the civility. Abby, you and I have discussed with our scientists sending more than just _one_ young man or woman down there. You're willing to risk your daughter's life for a hunch?

**GRIFFIN** : It's _not_ a hunch. Though the drones we've sent down only responded with ten seconds of atmospheric communication and data, there's a ninety-three percent chance that in the next few months, we're all capable of surviving on the ground. I .   .   . understand that she's a risk to have aboard. She  _is_ — was — Jake and I's daughter. But she's a lionhearted girl, who dreams of a life beyond these pressurized walls. I know she can bring us all home. We just need a little faith.

**COLE** : It's a pretty speech, and will look great on paper, but I think that it's a terrible idea. I thought we were just discussing further sentencing? Now we're voting to put the lives of all our people on that of a criminal? She's an adult by five hours.

**KAPLAN** : Technically, she has yet commit treason. This is a full-proof way of both investigating Earth and keeping a threat away from the public ear.

**MUIR** : What other options do we really have, friends? Sacrifice more than just one? Send all of the children down? That's just mass murder. This is the justice system — _sacrifice_.

**KANE** : I vote yes, on the off-chance that Abby may be right.

**JAHA** : Remember, we must be unanimous. Say 'Aiy' to agree, 'Nay' to decline.

**KANE** : I repeat myself: 'Aiy'.

**MUIR** : God speed, little girl. 'Aiy'.

**KAPLAN & COLE**: 'Aiy'.

**JAHA** : Abby? This is your proposition. You have yet to cast your vote.

**GRIFFIN** : I'm .  .  . just trying to grasp the fact that she's really doing this. Just, just _put_ me down as 'Aiy'.

**JAHA** : Though I could abstain, I have no objections to the proposal. If Abby believes Clarke capable of being our future backbone, then it's worth a shot. As Chancellor of the Ark, I say, 'Aiy'. Let the case rest: Clarke Griffin, eighteen, of the Twelve Stations, will go to Earth at first light. May we meet again.

**ALL, UNANIMOUS** : May we meet again.


	2. & Other Beautiful Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translating new words from English into Trigedasleng is literally my favorite pass time. So, please excuse the fact that this story is going to be heavily influential on Grounder Culture. I think it's such a creative concept, and since the show is much less than MA, this story will make up for all the disgusting, nitty gritty pieces that go missing. ( A.K.A. descriptive acts of violence and sex, drug use, non-con. This is your last warning to turn away now ! )
> 
> This took a few days because it's mostly description. Any dialogue I tried to thin out so it's easy to follow. Leave a comment if you like it !

Nimble fingers ( not yet marred with the tainted branches of broken trees ) dance along smooth, concrete ground. In her  _unconscious_  state of mind, Clark Griffin dreams of melting down broken chips of charcoal, balancing the darkness of shadows and the artificial light source bolted into the ceiling. The moon just outside thick plated windows gives off  _some_  extra texture to the piece, but the chiaroscuro of the floor sketch is obscured.

Disappointment clouds, and so she quits. A project for another time.

The great cusp of her childhood days passed away and  _wasted_  in the confinement of the Sky Box. The solitude in no way drove her to insanity; she not once lost sight of the honest weight of her family's actions. But, when Clarke shuts her woodsy, doe eyes and drifts into sleep, her mornings, noons and evenings blur into her nights. She envisions nothing but reality. Hooded eyelids flutter.

So very _real_ , does the metallic base feel against decorated palms. Part of her understands she's no longer awake, but a sizable, much more _hopeful_ piece forgets when the delicate pads of her fingers smudge away dirty gradients from the floorboard. Contrast media sticks to pale arms, promises of her talent traveling up like tattoos to the sharp curve of feminine elbows.

Clarke peers downwards to the artistry — a intense sunrise, cast over the side of a even more careful Earth. So close to her, so _sweet._  She places a burning pink cheek down onto the tile, feeling the gravitational pull. The overwhelming desire to step two bare feet on the Ground snuggles into her rib cage, twitching 'round like a bird. The inexplicably loud chambers of the Ark don't contain her here; _except_ , now there's a God awful pressure building, like an anvil on top of her lungs. A heavy _ping!_ rapping against the shell of her skull. She can't lift her dangling body from the straps of a dangling harness, hair spilled around her in knotted waves. Something tightly snares around the expanse of her leg.

The delicious naivete from dreaming fades away. There is no Ark Station hum. Just bitter  _silence._

Clarke is in the steaming wreckage of the tiny Drop Pod, hanging upside down from her chair, and so very, very  _alone_. 

It takes a toxic amount of time to find purchase in the landing. The scalding machine whistles — increasing her aggravation tenfold — but once the initial dizziness of plummeting into the atmosphere subsides, the young criminal raises a wounded skull from the hung resting place. The new angle drips blood down her chin; she can taste the ichor and copper as it coats her trembling lips. Her leg smarts as it pulls, strapped between a seat belt and a hard place. Those same artistic hands that had _ached_  for freedom rip at the Velcro until her limb is free. Gravity pushes, and a tiny shriek exhales from the seat. The harness, damaged in the Fall, no longer sustains her weight.

Clarke smacks into the shattered dashboard, wincing as buttons engrave her skin.

Lying in blood, rust, hot water, only minutes on the Ground, and part of her preferred death. The other half is in a strategic planning mode: two weeks. She has a fortnight to survive, to breathe, to drink, to learn and adapt, before the people could follow her footsteps _down_. If she could _just_ handle fourteen days, she would be pardoned of crimes against the Twelve Stations. ( Which, of course, she could argue never  _actually_ took place. But her mother's knowing gaze while she explained Clarke's options, in that tiny little cell before transport to Docking Bay — Abby knew her daughter would have done what she promised her Jake. She would have found a way to warn them _all_. )

Now, the young woman feels around her shaking thighs for the flashlight, tucked into the pockets of an oversize suit. A _click !_  and the bulb flickers once, _twice_ , before springing to life. The cabin, a few yards long and a few yards wide, illuminates against the shine. Clarke lets go of a relieved breath she didn't know she was holding, and takes inventory.

A single chair, with a snapped red and black harness. Three MedKits, a change of clothing for her space suit, and a decent sized box of rations. She ponders if the box would be fruitful for her time alone, until she considers her options. If she survives this adventure at all, going a few days hungry was nothing the Ark had never seen before. She could live to see another day. And with that sort of mentality, it was time to fight her initial fears.

Clarke reaches out for the bent, red  **EXIT**  latch, and curls herself out of the tin can.

She would remember her first steps on the Ground as if she were newborn trudging on their own for the first time. Gravity was too different: _surreal_. But in two strides across the soil, feeling the crunch of the land, the push of ozone, she can't control herself. Two vibrating fingers push free the silicon helmet, and she  _breathes._

There was no scabbing. No blistering. The atmosphere was not toxic to the touch, and her lungs contracted normal against the hummingbird pattering of her heart. A brief scent of petrichor delves along her nose, before wind carries it away. Fresh tears so _fine_ weld in awestruck eyes, before slipping down reddened cheeks. It was a taste in her mouth she could never place Up There, deriving from the Greek root _petra_ and  _ichor_ ; "stone", and the fluid that flows freely through the veins of the Gods. Indeed, Clarke Griffin felt royal and devout. She could drop to her knees to paint heavy rains and drink the drops as they fell from the pastel blue sky.

Earth is majestic. Earth is  _home_.

Earth is .  .  .   _screaming?_

In her glory, in the aftermath of skyrocketing from space, Clarke had been blind to a harsh _sobbing_ noise of a creature. Unnatural fear clogged her, as she was unarmed with anything beyond a shock - lasher; one, in which she fumbles to expel from her suit pockets. Once it is firmly activated, vibrating, _menacing_ , she investigates the earthly void. It was a sad and a hollow and a  _wounded_ cry to track, and her investigation ends as quick as it begins.

Behind shrubbery and a heavy blockade of trees, further debris from her crash peppers the neutral tones of leaf and stick. Just beneath that, hidden under Ark signature plating, lies a _young girl_.

Astonishment whiplashes Clarke to jerk back fiercely. A squinted gaze blows to a wide stare, yet, instead of allowing herself to feel so strongly ( _Survivors? Of the nuclear age?_   _Impossible._ ), the trained tech focuses in on the screeching child. Her hair was silky and done in intense, tangled braids that catch on branches mid -  _yank_. Blood streaks her scar bred, dirty skin more than the opal body paints dipping the crown of her facial features. Snuggled beneath the broken antenna branch that dislocated when the sound barrier breached, she struggles to flee. Gloved hands claw the soil into fists.

" _Au-ai!_ " The young girl wails. A different language. A different _breed_.

"Are you okay — no, sorry, that's a stupid question." Years of aid in GoSci and Ark Station Medical start a cataclysm of predestined steps. Clarke dodders  _weak_ towards the wounded Ground Person, popping pieces of her spacesuit until she was in a holey pink t-shirt and Ark durable pants. Fresh air chills down to the sting of curling toes, delicate hands quaking as the Injured begins a fit of explicits and bloodlusting war cry. In Clarke's  _first_ attempt to raise the pining shrapnel, more of an unintelligible, foreign speech reaches decibels of a notch to high for the liking of her ringing ears. " _Don't scream_ , okay? I _know_ it's painful, but I'm just trying to help you. You have to trust me."

Spit flies at her feet.

"I understand that you're in pain, but fighting me isn't going to solve anything."

" _Gonasleng?_ " As if a milky haze rose from the depths of their brief confrontation, the sweating girl blinks in realization, words forming a prism after brief silence. In the humble distraction, Clarke braces and heaves the metallic shell from her partner, _relieved_ when it lands a foot away from them. Freed, with blood seeping from the sweltering welts, the girl does not rise. "Gonasleng — er, _English?_ Ski gada, _sky_ .  .  . sky girl?"

"Yes, _yes_." Clarke startles, recognizing the dialect. "I speak English." 

"Good _._ _Don't touch me_." 

"I can help you. I'm a doctor."

"I don't need your help!" In a horrendous attempt prove that point, the girl rolls to her thin stomach and springs to rise. Stumbling back down in fits of agony, calves failing, she smushes into the mud, her own filth, and lifeblood. Clarke herself comes to bended knee, thoughtful hands stripping off her own t-shirt to try and stop the heavy splotches forming through lacerated skin. The woman would be dead in the next few hours if the flow was not stanched.

"You will die here if I don't." More furious Grounder speak, thick tears staining the curves of her face. "I don't understand your language. I'm going to apply pressure, so brace yourself. This _is_ going to hurt."

Clarke takes very little, yet precious time to find the worst wound. The lower half of an exposed leg is snapped vivaciously, bone protruding from pink flesh. Rebreaking would suffice for a time, to settle the bone back into it's original alignment, and after, Clarke would have to stitch up the remaining slice. Without anesthetic, it would be excruciating, but the flicker of bravery in the young woman's eye tells Clarke that she would be able to handle it. No longer fighting the aid, the young warrior girl's head falls into the splotchy Earth, hand stuck between her teeth to end her mewling.

Clarke reaches for the muscle of the leg, feeling, preparing. Then — 

Eventually, the screaming died away. Birds had fluttered in fear, the crickets of dusk fallen silent. But alas, the shifting was over.

"I'll be right back. Do not move." Blood stained hands still clench between the girl's, stinging from the force of the grip. Sweat slicks their palms as well, rubbing hot and warm in all the wrong ways. But there's a trust in the lazy gaze, one Clarke is grateful for. Teeth bare, surprisingly clean. Hygenic. She was getting a  _smile._

"Not that I could, Sky Girl."

"Clarke." She corrects, eyebrows pinched together. "Please, call me Clarke." She's back on two feet again, without a shirt, _unfortunately_ wrapped firmly around a healing calf ( luckily enough, a medical bandit hell together her breasts ). Following her own footprints back to the DropPod, she peels through the wreckage to grab the first MedKit available. A part of her considers grabbing her change of clothes, but their makeshift surgery was not complete. It would be a waste to destroy all she had left with the wet bloods of a stranger. A few leisurely breaths to regain her head, and she's rumbling back.

"You are .  .  . doctor of your people?" Returning to the insterile sight of their patching, the girl asks questions to take her mind away from the throbbing pain. Popping open the clasps of the plastic box, Clarke snaps on a pair of clear gloves, snatching needles, thread, numbing cream and two wooden leg braces. Placing them on the lid, the Med Aid dabs Povidone Iodine around the seeping wound. God forbid is got infected in such an earthy climate. The girl hisses something violent, fingers scraping and punching into Clarke's upper thigh. She knows bruises will form, but welcomes them.

"Yes. Kind of. Doctor in training. I'm a nurse. And you have .  .  . other people?" Once more attempting to distract the heated needle and thread, Clarke questions on as she pierces through tough knots of skin. The numbing cream thinned out; it was hardly felt at all. "We thought the Earth was barren of human life."

"Well, you were wrong." A beat. "You are Clarke, and I am Okteivia _._ Thank you."

"Of course. This needs to heal, okay? So do not tear my stitches."

An abnormally defiant look burns onto Clarke's skin. Okteivia frowns, shifting onto her elbows from still posture. Eyelashes curl from despair, unsettling something deep in the pit of their stomachs.

"I _must_ return home. They will send soldiers. You won't want that." Flabbergasted, Clarke's mouth opens to protest wildly. The warrior woman shakes her head. "No, _listen_. You have done me a great service. It is my fault for investigating without instruction. But my people will see it as attack. Trespassing. You  _will_ die, Clark of the Sky. My people do not approve of _any_ Outsiders."

Clarke finished her surgery, the wound closed but irritated. She remains silent in her post - cleaning away the slops of operation. Okteivia doesn't say much more, only remains roughly face down on the Ground, steaming from being ignored. In their perturbed silence, the nurse decides to patch up other tiny alterations. The forest falls back into hum.


	3. The Truth About Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke flexes those ( non-existent ) muscles, carrying Okteivia home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Here's a long awaited update. Season 3 just kinda drained me of muse, but it's over and I'm a happy camper, so please enjoy this impromptu chapter!

The _sun._

In all her awestruck breaths, inhaled through wired, greedy lungs, Clarke falls madly in love. The star left a defined  _taste_ down here: fresh and warm, beautiful, _godly._  It extends hues of red, orange and gold across the greenery of the horizon, scattering sunrays through the mask of trees. Clarke does her best to bask in the illuminated glow after every side step behind swollen tree trunks, flittering smile freckling her face.

Okteivia must have sensed something amiss, all of her agile admiration, for a amused voice rings loudly in her ear.

"Never seen the light, Sky Girl?" Words spoken like a slur, Clarke guesses the warrior girl had only recently awoken from her medically - induced nap. After some struggling, Clarke had convinced Okteivia to swallow a sterile pain reliever, promptly knocking out the stubborn girl. After slinging a backpack full of supplies onto Okteivia's sturdy shoulders, Clarke took the wounded onto her own aching back, doing her best to hunt down civilization through the trees.

However, Okteivia's clear shoe path dimmed as night time sprung upon the skyline. 

"Not like this." Clarke admitted meekly, readjusting her grip on Okteivia's thighs for less promise of falling. Like a child, whom desired a piggy - pack ride. All the while, she stayed careful of injury. "All my life, all I've ever felt is conditioned, filtered air. Artifacts and books we have in containment talk about it, but," Her shoulders shrug, and Okteivia clings tighter, "it's magnificent."

"It's almost gone." Okteivia's voice is stronger, full of nagging fear and realization. She attempts to wiggle free, and almost succeeds, before Clarke can protest due to the possibility of bringing further discomfort to a broken limb. Once the warrior calms down, she voices her growing indiscretion, "we can continue on into the night, but I must warn you. The darkness has no friends."

"I'll keep that in mind." True, Clarke broke into a disgusting sweat half an hour ago, and her wrists would be sore for a few days, at least. But she felt abnormally guilty.

It was her people's fault,  _her_ fault, for landing so recklessly. For all they knew, Clarke wouldn't have survived the gravitational landing in any way. The idea made her heart sour.

Furthermore, the damage to the warrior's leg could be irreversible if enraged, and Clarke's medical programming wouldn't allow her patient to carelessly undo such pristine work. So, despite her inability and lack of muscle skill, Clarke did her best to rummage through the sinking forest.

"You're lucky we're going in the right direction." A thought, that had crossed Clarke's mind. But there were a few signs of life beyond the high-rise of the mountains, smokes of raging fires, unearthed footprints, and the small stream of water. Literature hidden under her pillow on the Ark spoke of clear blue skies, villages by lakeside, and the sun. But now, the bleating orb had passed from the skyline. Dusk fell over in lavenders, blue. Space, stars - something, she was unable to appreciate due to her gravity-less Ark.

Okteivia, fidgiting again, exhaled loudly. Boredom, perhaps, lack of anything to do. Her chin fell to rest on the incline of Clarke's shoulder. "Tell me about your home, Sky Girl. The Ark. Why are you here?" 

In her silent travels across the plain, Clarke knew she would have to face this question sooner versus later. Only, what was she to say? She was no dignitary, no ambassador. She was just a wanted criminal sent down as a test subject.

Bitterly, she had considered retching the bracelet off to give them all a good scare, but when she calmed down enough to remember the countless lives remained at stake, Clarke knew she had to protect her wristband at all costs. Still, she was abandoned and betrayed by those closest to her - even her mother.

So she tells Okteivia about humble beginnings. She was raised in steel and concrete, high white lighting and hand me down clothing. She had aced her classes, befriended the Chancellor's son, followed slowly behind her mother's footsteps in medicinal practice. Her Father was born an engineer and died as a silent hero. And Clarke would do the same before she let his sacrifice go in vain.

Okteivia listened carefully over her ramblings of hierarchy, how the Council was run, past rulers of the Ark. Only when the proclamation of having a single child rattled past chattering teeth, did Okteivia speak.

"You are not allowed siblings?" She shook her head. "I can't imagine a life without my brother. I'm sorry for your loss." 

"There's nothing to mourn when you never had it." Clarke amends. She felt no sadness as she'd never known the bond siblings share. She cared for Wells, but never in a way that was blood familial.

Her eyes scour the sulking darkness as the stars glitter above the highrise of the mountains. Feeling her apprehension, Okteivia leads Clarke with a knowing eye.

"We're close. Please, set me down. I will use you as a crutch the rest of the way." Still wary, but understanding it was Okteivia's turn to lead for survival, Clarke lowers her body onto the grass, allowing ample room for the young warrior to climb off of her back. In a fumble of limbs and irritated grunts, Clarke stumbles through the darkness with Okteivia glued to her hip. The pair dodge large roots, thoughtful of the bum leg that drags scarily close to the Earth with every step. Beyond a clearing in the trees, a spec of firelight gleams.

Civilization.  _People_.

"Clarke, you've gone far enough. We're getting too close." Okteivia tries to pull her weakened body away, but Clarke's grip around the center is absolute against the sedation still coursing through Okteivia's veins. " _Come on_ , Sky Girl. Drop me and run!"

"No," Clarke stands her ground, shoes shuffling through tree dust and leaves, "absolutely not - "

" _Hod!_ " The gruff, masculine voice vibrates down the center of Clarke's back. So unexpected, foreign. As Okteivia braces herself, Clarke only scans the moonlit trees, angling for a body in the darkness. The warrior is upon them before she has a second to breathe, like a ghost in the night. His weapon, a bow laced at the ready, steadies itself in the center of her chest, point slicing into flesh uncovered by the scraps of her dry, blood - soaked t-shirt. His eyes are large and speak a lifetime of war. Overbearing, and frightening. "Tel Heda _Okteivia ste houm!_ "

Over his shoulder, there's a scatter in the bramble. A child, no older than ten, scrambles towards the damp, dark passage. The man, dropping his weapon only to splay it across the spinal chords of her back, nudges them foreword. Okteivia murmurs through the haze.

"Say exactly as I say, and you won't die today." She begins speaking words in her own language that make very little sense, but Clarke repeats them back under the disbelieving eye of the soldier. Her name is familiar, and she has enough common sense to know what Skaikru means. The rest was a jumble of vowels she was pronouncing just wrong. But as Okteivia repeats and repeats, Clarke's focus trickles to the large, wooden gate that creaks open upon their frantic entrance. There are words etched into the center, fluent but unfamiliar. And inside is more breathtaking.

It's a village. Children eat quietly by a fire closest to their entrance, beady eyes flickering to her silhouette in the darkness. Boys wrestle for a wolfskin flask, but pause as comotion of their arrival unsettles the pack. Clarke barely has time to appreciate the architect of hut after sturdy hut, when the arrow pinching at her spine flicks hard enough to spring tears to her eyes. Okteivia warns her to keep moving, still repeating, _Klarke_ and _Skaikru. Klarke_ and  _Skaikru._

She tries to say it back, but the words jumble on her tongue when another large warrior of a man sets down the reigns to his horse, and abandons the stable. He makes way towards them with purpose, and it's only then does Clarke let Okteivia go.

" _Linkon._ " The word is said with such love, such adoration, Clarke blinks away. Stumbling over the edge of a hill, the soldier, warrior and invader meet a tall, dark-sinned man with painted eyes and an overly-relieved expression. His arms encircle Okteivia in moments, crushing her to his chest. A bond Clarke couldn't, wouldn't understand. She welcomed the sting on her spine, as a reminder to not get lost in the sudden, sweet embrace. But as her duty as leverage is alleviated, the warrior with his weapon trained around her snakes an arm to a delicate collarbone, squeezing hard enough Clarke's trachea burns.

Oktevia peels herself away.

"No, _Gustos_ ,  _teik go!_ " When the pressing weight isn't relieved, Okteivia looks to her companion. She speaks English briefly, for the benefit of their visitor. "This is Clarke. She _saved_  me. I'm know Belomi has an order to -"

"Which," Linkon's eyes flicker to Clarke's, meeting bravery on bravery, "you've also disobeyed. What did you expect?"

" _Ai laik .  .  ._  " Clarke tries, weakly, " _.  .  . kom Skaikru._ "

Through the struggle, hands jumbling for purchase, lungs berating against her ribcage, her nails dig deep into the meat of her captor's forearm, followed shortly by a rabid line of teeth. Skin and blood divide from flesh, and she's roughly shoved into the hay near the stables, with instruments of animal handling meeting her on the way down. Her arrival called for attention, those boys sneaking up behind the trio enough to peek at the girl who touches the fresh slice to her lip, torn back open in the grunt of the fall. In the disgust of her landing, in her primal anger, Clarke glowers from the ground. Despite Okteivia's movement to aid, Linkon derails her wobbly leg. Gustos, the warrior with no mercy in his eyes, snatches Clarke by the hems of her shirt, lifting her from the filth. Clearly no quarrels with hurting her, he has her against the wood of the stables in a moment. Horses kick angrily at the noise. 

"Daun ste pleni," Says another voice behind the riot of onlookers. Clarke's heart beats through her chest, eyes never leaving Gustos'. Only when a firm hand shakes the warrior's shoulder free, does Clarke's feet once again touch the ground. Opal orbs dash to unspoken authority, only to find him young and handsome and entirely too calm in a situation that left her reeling. He steps in front of her, eyes slipping from her ruined t-shirt to Okteivia, who struggles through the dispersing crowd quick enough to grab his hand. " _Wait,_ don't hurt her, she helped me."

" _Splita_ \- an Outsider." There's finality in his voice, the wicked curve of his brow. Clarke doesn't shy away from the fight, but she holds her breath in warning. "She fell from the Sky. If you had waited twelve hours -"

"Then she could have moved on, or caused devastation." Clarke understands Okteivia's reasoning for branching on her own, but the wound to her pride is still present. Had she known - had any of them known that Earth was not uninhabited, they would have been more careful on dropping her from the Ark. She had to believe that.

"But she _didn't_. I got hurt, but -" Bellamy moves to inspect the damage done to Clarke, noticing the blood and filth littering her skin in crusty flecks. As Okteivia tries to reason with him in their infinitely frustrating language, Clarke shies away from his touch. To her forehead, chin, arms. Her backpack had been lost in the tussle, but reclaimed by the warrior girl who clutched it to her chest.

"I speak for her." His palm freezes on the inside of her elbow. Some of the village people behind Okteivia stumble back in shock, others abandon their side immediately. Hobbling, without Linkon, doing her best to remove Belomi from the eyeline of Clarke, the youngest comes between the pair like a brick wall. His eyes pierce through his little sister, though she stares defiantly back. "I, Okteivia, speak for Clarke Griffin, Princess of the Sky People. She has shown me a great kindness. I am in her debt."

A pin could drop, beyond the roar of the fire, and Clarke would hear it. Her heart nearly stops as their leader raises two fingers. Only when he speaks, curling them into the air, does she breathe easier again. "You heard her. Our visitor has _temporary_ protection. Now scatter."

Those behind him, craving bloodshed, disperse back to their original duties. Only a little girl with blonde hair sticks around, hidden behind the ginormous bodies. Clarke watches her intently, but only until Belomi says, "War Room. _Now._ "

"She is a skilled nurse," Okteivia begins once they've been relocated to a detailed wooden hut. Fire crackles in the center of a pit, illuminating a war room littered with maps, weaponry, and a woven throne of twigs and green. Gustos has her by the elbows, hovering, never letting up enough room to feel safe. Only Okteivia's words move her enough to stay calm under the beady eyes of their leader. A few others hover silent around a torch-lit desk. They look up in surprise as Okteivia's voice shatters the calm, "she's just here on a diplomatic endeavour. Her people want peace, not war."

"Enough, O." Belomi grips his sister's shoulders, relieving her of the weight she attempted to put on her leg. Linkon understands his apprehension, and grapples to replace his leader's arms. Belomi lets up without fail. "You seem awfully close with strangers you met only hours ago. She is no more trust worthy as she is unknown."

"I'm right here." Raising her voice was a mistake, as all eyes fall to Clarke's skin. She mentally crawls underneath it, but holds her ground with a glint of superiority in her eyes. Despite Gustos' grip, she wiggles free enough to speak for herself. "I can be my own advocate."

Belomi faces her, another young man coming to his side. War-painted.

"Who's this?"

"Skaikru." Okteivia's reply is gentle.

"I am Clarke Griffin." Her voice wavers slightly, but her heart beats throughout her tone. She's afraid, more so than ever before, but enough that it fuels a raging fire. "My mother is a Council Woman of the Ark - a leader. I was sent down here to see if Earth is still survivable, because as far as we knew, it was toxic."

A bone in the young man's face jumps, flexing with an unreadable emotion. Clarke decides, with this affirmation and silent disdain, it was time to hurriedly explain her purpose.

"I wish you no harm, but I also no longer directly serve my people either. They sent me down here to die. If it wasn't for my mission, I would completely renounce my allegiance."

There is more dastardly silence as their leader considers her words. As time ticks by, Okteivia's eyes delve from Clarke's searching gaze to her brother. Under countless reckless stares, he moves to sit upon the chair of bramble and ash. A king on a throne, saturated with the blood and death of his enemies. Clarke could paint his picture, a standstill of mightiness, if he wasn't so suddenly sullen.

"Why did you deserve such an .  .  . _honor_? What's your mission?"

"In two weeks time, the Council, my superiors, will slaughter over a hundred people. The population is draining oxygen, and many believe the only way to fix this is a Culling. Mass murder." Conviction lacerates her tone, hands dropping to the flourish of her wrist. The beeping machinery catches the attention of all, and her guard grips hard into her forearm to examine the device. Despite the agitation of muscle, she doesn't relent. "My father wanted to release the information that would and could have prevented this, but was floated before he got the chance. I almost followed him, but due to my age, I was sentenced to prison instead and sent to Earth to -"

"- your people are looking for a new home?" Another voice speaks, from the huddle of warriors. He's short, rat-like, and handsome still. His eyes dissect her like an experiment, narrowing in on the small piece of the Ark she has strapped to her.

"Yes."

"This is not their territory to be had." Belomi continues of his second hand, fingers gripping at the armrests. Like a pack of wild dogs, those surrounding them hoot with agreement. Clarke is roughly shoved to her knees, knife pressed into the hull of her throat. A slice of pain dribbles down crimson along the thick line of the sword. Okteivia barks in her mother tongue, attempting to flee to the aid of her protected. But only Belomi's weakened fingers beckoning silence ends the terrible jut of skin beneath weapon. "This is not your home."

Hefty sarcasm sweeps past parted lips.

"I'm beginning to understand that. I can convince them," She regains composure, "if they survive long enough to come down here. This is not their world to take over, but yours to defend. This band here lets them know I'm still okay. They can come soon and be gone sooner if I survive the next two weeks. If I don't, they may come down with no middle man, no diplomat. There will be bloodshed."

"Not on our part." But something wicked in her eye troubles him. The Ark was faced with far more advanced technology. Sure, those of the ground seemed skilled in the art of combat. But they didn't have ammunition and machine rifles.

"It doesn't have to come to it." She reminds carefully.

"If I may, sir -" An unspoken female warrior scoundrels to Belomi's side, hushed words over the dim crackle of the campfire, "you're _not_ going to let her stay, are you? She not only injured your second, your _sister_ , but is propositioning  _you_. We cannot repeat the last Sky Person."

Clarke's surprise is masked. _Another person fell from the stars?_

"That was before my time as your superior, and Anya as _Heda_ , Echo." The finalization in his tone removes the weapon from her neck. Ever still, the woman beside a monarch flickers her gaze across every inch of Clarke as if she was a disease.

"Which," She spits angrily in her direction, "is why you wouldn't remember the devastation. Perhaps informing the Commander -"

" _Enough_." Belomi's tone is enraptured - enraged by suggestion. The warrior bows her head in minute shame, stepping back from the podium with respect. Still, his gaze falls upon Clarke like warning of plague. If looks could kill, she would have been gutted long before their leader's propositional quiet. Then - "If what you say is true, you will have two weeks of asylum here."

Okteivia's body physically trembles, falling slow into a calmer, rhythmic pattern of breath. Clarke's eyes sting with the knowledge she was not to die today.

Belomi scowls.

"Don't look to relieved, _Skiakru_. If two weeks surpass without contact of the .  .  .   _Ark,_  we will demand you to leave. Any longer is an unstayed welcome. And if any devastation falls onto my people while you hide away in our ranks," He leans forwards, mouth pressed in a fine line, "I will kill you myself."


	4. A Day On The Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke does her best not to die of unjust looks, or really, just avoid dying all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I'm the worst at saying I'm gonna update but hey! I'm here now to ruin your life with some long ass Bellarke Angst. Please enjoy this chapter, because I know I did writing it. ♥ Oh, and I put my photoshop skills to the test & cried while making this banner so there's this too.  
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Clarke drifts just beyond the ability to truly sleep. In between the hazes, she dreams in gore. Of sickly, broken bones severing skin and muscle. Of arrowheads piercing spines. A pair of big brown eyes, the predatory stares of a hunter. And the mighty war cry of a young, fierce girl just her age. It doesn't take long to come alive from each tumble between unconscious and awake, and only when the early September sky out the window of the small hut patterns navy and purple does she sit up from the squeaking pallet and stretch ( exhausted ) into the stale air of woodsman - ship.

Rubbing away the tiny crystals formed in the corners of her eyes, she dangles both feet off the side of the bed in a swift movement. There she notices a pair of legs crossed comfortably across the small room, reaching out from the shadows made by the moon.

Alert, jumping to her feet, she goes to defend herself by reaching for - nothing. She had no weapon, the shock - lasher abandoned near her Drop Pod, nor an item heavy enough around her to inflict harm from unwanted intruders. She didn't even have her backpack to swing.

But Okteivia leans forward a bit, fair and pallor. Braids drip past her shoulders to frame the sweet and sharpened jaw, spectacular paints smeared across the sockets of her eyes. Dark shadows fall beneath, moons highlighting acute cheekbones.

" _Oh_ \- you're scared me." Clarke flushes red and sits back onto the pallet. The bedding protests, the most deafening noise in the room besides Clarke's elicit breathing. Okteivia's mouth twitches upwards in a grin, fierce. 

" _Bosh moba_ , Clarke, but it's nearly dawn. I've waited until you awoke on your own to get you ready for your day." Blue eyes flicker back to the windowpane, where the twinkling stars of the sky had melted into a pale violet and early pinks. What she wouldn't give to paint it. There's also some movement - other Grounders arisen with the break of day. Carefully peeking back at Okteivia, her disagreeable sitting arrangement, the antagonized posture of her ribcage, she guessed the warrior girl had been by her bedside for some time. 

"Is  .  .  .  are you being punished into babysitting me?" After all, Belomi's proclamation of her two week safety hadn't resonated well with his closest confidants. The rat - like man had angrily stormed away. Gustus had _pleaded_ with him to reconsider destroying what life Clarke had left, in English, to rub grains of salt in her gaping wounds. But the leader silenced his cry and had made quick work of the situation around him instead. Linkon had taken Okteivia to the _Fisa_  to be seen on her injuries from the fallen Drop Pod debris. Gustus, with the powerful and wicked eye of his Captain on his back, was instructed to find Clarke a clean and vacant hut for her stay.

The pair had remained eerily silent as they left the War Room to return to the village circle, his hands leaving yellow bruises unto her weakened bicep. Hungry eyes of the plenty beyond many villagers had huddled, waiting impatient for a meaty slaughter. Instead, they stalked her every step until the door to a dusty hut creaked behind her.

There, she'd breathed heavier than she had ever done before, hands clutched at her hammering chest. Despite the extravagance to her unaffected persona in the eyes of the Ground People, she was frightened and entirely _alone_. Any tears that fell down the soft curves of her face were quickly washed away in a small bowl of fresh water at her bedside. She was _alive_ , after all. Uninjured, beyond the bruises and scrapes from the descent to Earth, and  _alive._

Crawling across the cot, she lay face down in the pillow and tried to find peace in the stillness of her cabin. At some point, Okteivia must have snuck in to survey their newest ally into the morning dew. 

"I have spoken for you," Okteivia speaks solid, bringing Clarke back to the present, "and between my people, I've claimed full responsibility for your actions. My watchful eye is my own."

A moment of thought amuses her.

"Though my brother finds you a bad omen."

"Belomi  .  .  .  " Clarke tries the name out on her dry tongue. It's an earthy sort of title, unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant. She pulls on the roots of her hairs in attempt to alleviate some of the inevitable pressure building under her temples. "He's your leader?"

Okteivia stands from her still perch, brave bones cracking down her spine. Dirty fingers motion to the neatly woven rugs. Underneath Clarke's twitching toes, they're grainy yet fuzzy, painted in green.

"Sit on the furs. Let me braid your hair. I will answer your questions."

She is hesitant, but the blonde woman eventually dips to the rug, crossing her legs beneath her. Okteivia limps sorely with muted hisses, shuffling a bum leg onto the pallet vacant of Clarke's warmth. The grimy locks are yanked away from her face, golden tresses falling around her in uneven waves. Okteivia begins to separate sections of her hair, taking layers thick and thin together to pull a plait downwards of her skull.

"I believe I _failed_ to mention before that my brother is our Captain, of _Trikru_ \- the Woods clan of our many people."

Clarke snorts just a bit; a blunder that had not benefit herself in the slightest. The section of hair in Okteivia's hands is yanked tightly, a bit _too_ hard in retaliation.

"You're both so young." She tries instead.

"He earned his place among the Clans, as did I." She speaks with the true carnivorous mouth of the Ground. It's a undertone Clarke feels echoing from her dreams. Fondling locks of locks to form a perfect single decoration down her left side, Okteivia flicks more pieces to do a second beside it. The faintness of her touch, of her juvenile voice, returns to the conversation, "Perhaps another time, I'll explain."

"How old are you? How old is he?"

"I  .  .  .  near eighteen." There's a playfulness to her now. Jesting. Fond. "And Belomi is twenty three."

"And how many of you are there? Just this village? Or beyond that?"

A sigh. "This village is but a resting place for warriors in the midst of travel. A few bands of Trikru warriors were in preparation to investigate your arrival, and soon, we will report back to the Coalition on our progress. Belomi granted you two weeks asylum, but I fear if that will be enough time."

Clarke's head jerks speedily to look backwards at Okteivia, but rough, steady hands keep her skull in place. Despite her desire to look the warrior in the eye, she traces the curve of her her kneecaps with her gaze instead. As her hair comes together in completion, tied together forcefully with a pair of elastic leather bands, she voices her concern, "What do you mean, 'enough time'?"

"We can discuss it later." All the humor had whisked into the wind, unoccupied from her only companion. A breath of finality took it's place, and with it, seeds of dread knot and pit in the lowest part of Clarke's stomach. Even though she had a firm idea she was the older of the two, Okteivia was the superior. Now, once more standing, Clarke watches weakly as she limps terribly towards a pile of darkened cloth folded neat and upright besides the wooden chair. Careful in picking them up, along with a plate of breads and rice, Clarke is thankful when she takes both into her hands.

After many hours without food, all rations left in the Drop Pod or confiscated in her backpack, even the smallest provisions looked feast - worthy. Her stomach growls on cue.

"The sun has nearly risen. I've brought you new clothing and some food. Change and eat. I'll wait outside the door when you're ready."

And like that, once more Clarke stands still on her own. Gifts weigh her palms, blessings. She sits upon the makeshift bed, hurriedly clearing away her plate in minutes. Bringing the end of her rice to the tips of her lips, fingers ghost the brink of her jaw. She spies the bracelet on her arm in the pastel morning light. 

She wonders what kind of technology hums away on her skin, her last piece of the Ark sunk into her veins. Could they hear her? See her? Or was it only vitals that monitored her time on the Ground? Could it taste the harsh flavors of Earth - grown food like she was? Or did it scan her for blood pressures and oxygen levels?

Bitterness embraces her.

Struggling gloomy with an internal battle to remain on course with saving the lives of those Ark - bound, their souls stitched to her backbone, she peels off the bloodstained shirt and tucks the rusty material near the end of the pallet. Her survival was theirs too, and she had best remember that, even in the most dark and selfish thoughts.

Clarke pulls over a top made of hide and silk, durable when pulled on but light when she rotates. Valuing the thought of the seamstress who made something so battle ready, she discards her sweaty cargo pants and slips into an even more rugged material, with bijou pouches and holsters for storing armament. She concludes a future absence of an weaponry, with trust between her and the band of _Trikru_ warriors on a thin edge to none. Instead, she decides to fill them with herbs and poultices. A belt of woven rope and dainty bird feathers keep the waistline from falling to far from the bone of her hips.  

With a splash of cool water to her face and exposed skin, she opens the creaking door and shuts it just the same behind her. Okteivia leans casual and cool against the side of her temporary home, and at her emergence, sheathes a long broadsword to her back. Okteivia wobbles down the steps to the multchy, pine cone scattered pavement. A terrible look of agony crosses her face, in which Clarke addresses immediately by fussing to her side. The abrasive look she's given in answer has her backing off.

Their pace is sedate as they saunter into the lively morning.

"Should you be walking like this?"

"I am Belomi's Second. I have no time for ailments." Okteivia peeks at a guilty Sky Girl. "Nyko bound it appropriately. Wood keeps it in line. Admired your work."

But Clarke found herself incapable of registering such a compliment. In the dead fight of night, she had paid very little attention to detail. Her mind had raced into survival mode and blurred Grounder culture. With the sun shadowing the tops of straw covered huts, wooden stalks keeping them upright, Clarke unknowingly fell in love again with the Earth again. Even as many civilians branded their unwelcome gazes into her, she inhales the dewy scent of the air. Grassy and fresh, the humidity leaving sweetened beads of sweat to fall across the back of her itchy neck. A flock of children brawl around a fire doused and smoking, brandishing wooden spears almost too splintered to be safe.

Still, the sharpness was enticing. A few flags fall in fluttering banners as the September winds break their sail, showing off a conjoined symbol of three crescents, splatter painted in red and black ink.    

"What does that mean?" She asks to Okteivia, who had plucked a clean pair of apples from a basket near the smoky fire pit. She hands one to Clarke, unaffected to the murderous look she was given by the man arranging fresh fruits. Okteivia bites into the ripest area as Clarke waits for a better time to enjoy.

"The insignia of the _Trikru_. When a clan stations here, as we have, they make themselves _known_."

"And where are we headed?"

"You ask lots of questions, Klarke." Still, the silence is weighted and uncomforting and she flares her nostrils in exasperation. "The stables. If you're to spend time here, you should be comfortable with the terrain."

 _Just in case_ , the sentence suggests.

Clarke takes a bite of her apple, amazed by the tang and crunch of red skin. Closing in on the front gates, Okteivia groans strongly in unabashed pain beside Clarke with every tormented step. But she refuses help, leaving Clarke to glance around and remember a familiarity. Just beyond the small incline of a hill was a batch of hay and discarded barn tools, unmoved from her fall against them ( and Gustus' forceful pining ). She beadily looks away as they level, following a breathless Okteivia inside a pair of towering, swinging doors.

And there stand horses.

Only literature and poems could capture their indefinite beauty, where as history books only explained their bone and physic. Strapping, muscled, colossal, they bray wildly unsure of a newcomer in their steepal. She wonders if they smell in her blood that she is different, snouts long and flashing nostrils, reined by buttoned leather. Okteivia bypasses many, careless to their vexing antics, until as a pair they reach a mare of short brown hair and big, trustful eyes. Clarke feels the unkept urge to brush away the dirt of his mane, but refrains in a moment of uncertainty.

"This is Helios." Okteivia pets down the center white stripe of his hair, kissing the mare saccharinely on the muzzle. Such an affectionate act left Clarke thinking; she was clearly misreading the village around her. Maybe in time, with adaptation, they would show her the great kindness that Okteivia bestowed upon her horse.

Coming closer by mere inches, Clarke flexes her fingertips with the intent to touch. Okteivia steps aside to let her try.

"They're so  .  .  .  " Words couldn't enrapture the emotion clogged in her throat. She stretches to pat as Okteivia turns from a _touching_ first time, murmuring a promise to ride him together. However, in the creased corner of Clarke's eye, the girl reaches for a bourbon saddle, and abruptly ceases.

"Ah, if it isn't our  _natrona_. Your actions should be punishable." The rat - like man from the eve previous sifts his boots through the mounds of hay, a bite of malice falling from a silvertongue despite a stretching smile stitching pink lips. As his lanky arms across his chest, Okteivia hawks once and spits. A habit of acquired distaste, Clarke mused, as she'd done the same thing when she'd been pinned beneath Drop Pod steel.

" _Branwoda_." A banter of words so foreign to her. Only by the change in the atmosphere, by the way the two faced off like _starved_ animals ready for a nasty brawl, did she realize a fight when inbound. Clarke did her best to position behind Helios. Without a weapon of any kind, she was a useless advocate for violence in a room of war gods.

"Such _hostility_ in the eyes of our new friend."

A double edged blade of scratchy iron handle and silver tip untucks from the sleeves of his cloth, tinkered as a threat between each hand. He easily spies Clarke's clandestine glare beyond the mare. Okteivia foots in front of her too, hunched and furious at idle threats. Her broadsword is a gleam, a caution. 

"Ai don frag op yo taim yo _laksen em op_ -" The dialect more and more raspy with every shuddering breath. 

" _Pleni en_. Both of you. I sent you to find, not maim." A third voice of reason resonates, deep baritone. Entering beyond Okteivia and the unwanted Grounder, Belomi stalks, flanked by two war painted soldiers. He easily snatches the weapon from Okteivia's adversary, harshly shouldering him out of the way to come between the impending battle. The two visibly shrink as Clarke straightens her spine, getting a better look at her only friend's brother. Broad shouldered, dressed in dust speckled, tight war sleeves, he's regal and thick jawed. A constellation of freckles smatter across his face in the warm yellow light of the day. Bushy eyebrows pinch together. 

He notices her too, charcoal eyes squinting to slits. His gaze follows the tangles of her braids, to the _Trikru_ clothing that bore her back. Clarke holds her ground, restraining the urge to squirm under the judgemental look.

"Where are you taking Klarke?"

"Through the territory." Far more relaxed in the presence of her sibling, Okteivia peers away from Belomi's indignant frown, gripping once more at plush saddles from their unkempt pile. The dip of his chin worsens as he bares his teeth at her. "If she's to survive a fortnight and know what to avoid when _Skaikru_ arrive, I will be her teacher."

"You're going to show her our routes?" The weaponless man scowls, shouting enough to get Okteivia steaming again. He attempts to bypass Belomi, but is restrained by a meager grip to his sleeve. "Why not let her kill our children too?"

Clarke steps from behind Helios, mouth thin as a line of glass.

"I'm not here to be a murderer." If she'd been meek and hiding before, they saw her now. Delicate white hands ball into enraged fists, nails digging slight into her palms. The cavernous color of her uniform contrasted the soft creamy skin of her complexion. Okteivia smirks to her left, to herself, even, but says nothing. The male menace ducks Belomi and pounds across the hay, reaching a mere foot away from Clarke before their leader snaps a warning to cease his advance. His eyes bare down like knives, for he had none to stab her through and through.

Her brows bury. "I don't want to see your people suffer. I don't want mine to die either. This is a new world, one I wasn't prepared for, one _none_ of my - none of the  _Skaikru_ even believe existed!"

"Well I say we get rid of that bracelet," He snatches her wrist, bringing the silver piece eye level, "and feed you to the wild. Let _Skaikru_  kill each other off before they can come to us."

Belomi opens his mouth to speak, a final deterrent, but Clarke breathes over him.

"You would let thousands of innocent people die over your territorial pissing match? We're just trying to survive!"

"This isn't your world to survive _on_ , Sky Girl -"

The sizable doors of the stables _bang!_ shut, creating a shuddering noise so corrosive Clarke struggles away from the man in sudden panic. Over Okteivia's mortified shoulder, Belomi had ushered away his guard detail and slammed the wood behind him. Horses bray wet teeth with unease, kicking their cage doors violent. The girl from the Sky winces at hooves on wall, grateful for Okteivia's little coos at their maws. 

"If I have to silence any of you again you will regret it." The Captain stares all three down. " _Mofi_ - we have extended our  .  .  .   _hospitality_ , our mercy, to Klarke to finish her mission. Anything beyond that is on her and her people. As my Right and Left hand, you and Okteivia _both_  know we have far greater threats than a little girl who lost her way. If her people want a war, we are prepared to give it to them. We have allies that will destroy you all."

His brown eyes pin her to the dirt.

"And if her people want peace, we can give it to them too." 

"In return for what?" Clarke accuses. A new development in their arrangement was unheard of to her. Mofi's face scrunches, shunned, belittled. Okteivia ( saddling Helios for the ride ) smugly ties the reins tighter. 

"That's to be further discussed. Take this," He hands Mofi his blade, "and meet me back in the War Room." The Second disappears out the door in a cloud of seething fury. Belomi only remains for a moment. "Okteivia, I expect you to return by high noon for training. Your absences have cost you time and your injury is an inconvenience to our ranks."

As an afterthought, his gaze appraises Clarke again.

"Bring Klarke,  _hainofi kom skai._ "

And then he vanishes too, the doors rattling behind him.

"Your brother is a bit of a dick." Clarke admits to Okteivia later, once they've mounted Helios and flew through the open gates. For many miles, she clings to his rider like a lifeline, still entirely uncertain of being atop of a beast so rightfully gorgeous, but so abnormally dangerous at the same time. Okteivia brings her mare to a lilith trot across supple Earth and blinks back at Clarke with an understanding expression across painted eyes.

In appearance, so much like her brother did Okteivia look. But their spirits only matched in the right light. Where Belomi had been mysterious, demanding and collected and cruel, Okteivia seemed to be a ball of good energy hidden beneath a tiny body and the scars of bloodshed. 

"He is wise beyond his years. It's Mofi - er,  _Murphy_ \- you must be wary of." Clarke keeps the translation in mind. "His indiscretions have been treacherous and yet he still remains Belomi's  _left hand_."

Okteivia sneers. Clarke squeezes her a little tighter.

"It's not often a clan leader takes on another Second, yet not a pair of years have gone by since his arrival from _Azgeda_ and he's in Belomi's back pocket. I love my brother, but I worry about his choices."

"You don't trust Mofi?" Okteivia shakes her head.

"No."

"What's _Azgeda_?" The word is as unspoken and foreign as the world around her. It's cold on the tongue, and leaves Okteivia halting Helios beside a stream that travels in each direction somewhat indefinitely.

"One of the twelve clans; the Nation of Ice." Dismounting and helping Clarke too, Okteivia takes a moment to search for and grapple a stick. Beside the shifting shoreline, as Helios drinks gleefully, the warrior draws symbols into the sand. "There are others, of course; _Delphi, Podakru, Sankru. Trikru_. But _Azgeda_ are not to be trusted within our Coalition, Klarke."

She digs her hand into the Earth, then paints a circle around palm. The symbol of their enemy.

"If in your travels, _Trikru_  on your side or not, if you meet the white painted face of a warrior, or see this insignia -  _run_. They will not respect you like Belomi has."

"Respect me?" Clarke blinks, revelating at the sourness of her own voice. "You are the only one who has shown me any sort of warmth or compassion since I came to the Ground -"

"His kindness was your life. His protection." Okteivia stands on a broken leg, and Clarke does beside her, feeling slightly reprimanded beneath her friend's gaze. "The Commander won't be pleased with his decision to keep you alive. Our orders were to slay you on sight."

Another fair hour passes without conversation flowing. They rode on without stop, Okteivia pointing to the most unnoticable designs carved into the roots of grand trees to show territorial lines. The break in forest tops that lead to monuments, battle grounds. Clarke intakes information, but remains a stoic silent as thinks on the kill order pinned to her head. How even with Belomi's temporary pardon, this  .  .  .  Commander could decide to overrule him. Okteivia punishable for disobeying orders, _Belomi_ punishable for his crimes. The gravity of their helpfulness in the situation humbles her, and turns her stomach over. She makes a note to thank them both for even considering to keep her alive long enough to face their benefactor.

And then she thinks of her family. Her mother, and Wells. Her Father, who perished silently in the frozen wasteland of space. A cold sweat breaks over her, sadness rocketing like a virus.

"You've grown quiet, Klarke. What ails you?" Okteivia leads them back across a bridge carved from stone and decades of weathering, close to the border of their village. Clarke presses her mouth together and considers telling her of her discomforts. But in the company of heathens, it was time she adapted.

"I'm tired. I didn't sleep well."

"No, you did not." Okteivia mumbles something under her breath, unintelligible. Clarke doesn't press. "Perhaps after visiting the field with Linkon and I, _and_ after speaking again with Belomi, you can rest until dinner."

Clarke nods in agreement, and rests her head softly against Okteivia's back. 

The return is far shorter than she expected, big wooden gates of the village springing wide open. Helios flies onwards past the stables with rein direction, back down a sturdy hill of detailed shrubs and little flowerbeds bending beneath his hooves. As they come nearer to a clearing of short grass and broken concrete ( a structure dismantled from a life lived previous ) bodily shapes become groups of children. They spar and wrestle into the dirt, picking up clouds of dust. Clarke spies Belomi as he surveys the litter of scrawny warriors, dressed _much_  different than earlier. Like a concentrated Linkon beside him, a pair of dark ripped cargo pants hang on his hips, tucked beneath the straps of fur boots. A black sling with full clips of glittering knives and darts hang 'round his bare chest.

Clarke quickly peeks away, somewhat unnerved by their sudden lack of undress. Okteivia laughs at her.

"A little skin is bothersome to you, Klarke?"

She makes a face.

"No. Everyone has worn armor. It's a surprise is all."

Okteivia rolls her glowing eyes as they finally stop close to the commotion, dismounting with a flourish. Helping her to her feet, the warrior leaves Clarke to stay in charge of Helios. Belomi notices them, then, straight - faced calculation, before going back to instructing a young boy mid - parry blow. Seemingly displeased to Clarke, he fixes the young man's stance and has him try once more. 

She coos towards the mare now, patting his heavy panting down until he calms beneath her touch. Marveling at the hair betwixt her fingertips, she doesn't notice as a body looms behind her until he speaks.  

"This is our only arena in this village." She jumps at Linkon's peaceful voice, turning over her shoulder. Clarke notes he doesn't stare at her with the poison in his eye everyone else does. It's an inhale of fresh air as he smiles to her small, eyes falling back to Okteivia who took Belomi's place in instruction. "We teach our young to behave like an adult. To fight like one."

"They're all so tiny."

"They begin younger still." Belomi joins them nosily, brushing his hands off. Hide gloves covered in soot and a pair of leaves rub down the outside of his pants. She watches him, and he watches her back. "I assume Okteivia has told you this is not our home, but a halfway village. These are our best young capable of leaving. They continue to be taught every day."

"Okteivia is their teacher?" _She's going to tear my stitches_ , she thinks grumpily. They all glance to Belomi's Second, who wobbles a bit unsteady on her bound leg. 

"When I am otherwise busy." 

And just before Clarke could inquire on upcoming discussion, a female comes to fall behind Belomi. Shyly, broken from the pack of bloodthirsty warrior children, she cradles something in her pygmy hands. Clarke remembers in a moment it's the blonde girl whom only watched Clarke take Gustus' abuse, beady eyes calmer and more elated in the light of day.

Belomi drops to his haunches. His expression is not kind, but unharsh too. As Linkon steers Helios back towards the stables, Clarke is left to watch as the Captain grasps at the girl's palms.

"Yes, little  _gona_?" She opens her fingers, presenting Belomi with a handful of the freshly torn flowers that scatter the field. Their petals are soft baby blues, with a warm yellow center, and he takes them away, the kindest turn of his lips sifting into Clarke. So he was capable of being gentle.

Leaning to whisper into her ear, his quick words have the girl looking to Clarke before scattering away. And under her immediate stare, he stands again and comes to her side. " _Chit yu gof_?" 

Knowing very well she had no understanding of the language, his grin hurts her worse than the pride - wounding darken of her cheeks. He aims to walk towards the village, bramble crunching beneath their boots as she follows in tow, only, halfway there a hand grips onto Clarke's bare fingertips. She stops to peek down at the same girl, who had returned with a full fist of flowers at her elbow.

Looking to Belomi, who had frowned to watch the scene unfold, Clarke falls to her knees.

"Yes  .  .  .  little _gona_?" She repeats him quietly. The brown - eyed child shoves the herbs into one of Clarke's open pockets. Before she could scurry away, she says, "I am Clarke."

" _Hainofi kom skai._ " The girl grins, toothy and the most beautiful thing she'd seen on this Earth yet. A buzzing feeling overcomes her. "Princess of the Sky."

She doesn't have to heart to tell her otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOSH MOBA - Apologies.  
> NATRONA - Traitor.  
> BRANWODA - Worthless.  
> MOFI, AI DON FRAG OP YO TAIM YO KASEN EM OP - Murphy, i will kill you if you hurt her.  
> PLENI EN - Enough everyone.  
> HAINOFI KOM SKAI - Princess of the Sky  
> GONA - Warrior  
> CHIT YU GOF? - What do you want?


End file.
